Review: Necrot Have Blood Offerings Aplenty

How long had it been? How long had he been down in this cavern? How many weeks? Or was it months?

The man could never truly be sure how many waking hours he spent navigating the underground labyrinth. He had lost track of the days after a fortnight, the darkened belly of this damnable labyrinth swallowing whole time itself. Through his wanderings he had come across rotted monuments to the past both mad and macabre, almost entirely erected from the putrefacted chassis of those who sought what he sought: Blood Offerings. The abominations stood tall and warped, some with their intestines removed and hair preserved and fashioned as strings across the body, made as instruments of a foul and otherworldly melody though melody was perhaps a generous term.

Something caught his eye as he stumbled underneath the monstrous musical monuments. Faintly in the distance a light glimmered before seemingly leaping through the cavern, dancing across the stringed innards of those in the cavern before meeting his eyes like a first love. He knew immediately that this was it, the purpose of his journey, his white whale finally within reach. For the first time in weeks he moved with purpose.

He practically burst in, his heart moving at a rate that his legs could not fathom and would not want to even if they could. The light had lead him into a large room, perhaps the size of a ballroom, littered with candles and for every candle it appeared there was a corpse. Ornate tapestries hung, golden hued and larger than life, moving ever slightly and more so eerily in the still air of the labyrinth. Underneath the unnerving banners at the furthest corner of the room the walls narrowed and jagged steps rose from the earth before ceasing at the feet of a gnarled throne. It appeared to be formed from the tendrils of a great tree but the man knew not from where, for he was too deep into the earth for any plant to take root.

Seated atop the throne was the desiccated corpse of some unknown king, his remnants not unlike those lesser beings hewn into instruments he had come across. There’s no equalizer quite like death he thought. The King’s hand held his prize in its loose grasp. From your cold, dead hands he thought, a wry smile on his face. He was a comedian today.

He approached the throne in a hurried pace, his excitement overwhelming him. He stood before the king, lording his continued existence over the fallen ruler. He reached for his hand and grabbed his trophy. He stared at it welling with satisfaction, his journey complete. Blood Offerings, the debut full length from Oakland’s Necrot. His satisfaction was short lived as a deep rumbling rose from the bowels of the planet and hit the labyrinth. The throne before him sank into the ground, an opening in the wall behind it revealing itself to him. Something massive and violent lumbered within. He knew what it was immediately: RIFFS. He knew he had no chance to escape them as he was already too close and even the maddest dash would surely end in his end. His only choice was to let the riffs take him.

They washed over him like an angered tide, seeping into his mind and overtaking his every thought. He could hear the twisted monuments outside echoing the riffs within the room, playing them in a warped manner as if to mock him. Howls sounded throughout the room but he did know from where they originated, only that they would haunt him for however much longer he would remain on this plane of existence. His body convulsed as thunderous rhythms overtook him. Slowly but surely he felt his body dying, fading away bit by bit. The riffs were too much. He hadn’t been prepared for this.

He managed to move his head and survey the room only to be met with fright. The king, in all of his putrescent glory, stood over him. The king knelt beside him, his bones creaking and dried flesh tearing as the last square of toilet paper does off of the roll. You, the king hissed with his emptied eye sockets peering off into some distant void, you will make an excellent addition. He understood now that his fate was to become one of the monstrosities he saw, to be turned into an altar to worship the power of the riff. He was to be another melody in the king’s hellbound cacophony. The king raised his hands high above his head clasped as if in praise, eye sockets still aimed at the distant nothingness. The king drove his hands deep into the man’s gut and rummaged through his intestines, searching for what would best suit his needs. He wanted to scream but could not, or at least if he did he could not hear it. The music was too loud. The music was too glorious. He thought to himself one final thing, that perhaps this fate would not be so bad if he could listen to the music for the rest of time.